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... yard. It was nearly dusk, the sky painted in fading violet and gold, but the drills hadn't stopped. Rows of Shadow Knights moved in precise formations, blades sweeping in rhythm, the sound of footfalls and armor syncopated like a war-drum beat.

Riven stood at the center of it all, his cloak shed, sleeves rolled, obsidian armor dulled by sweat and use. In his hands, the scimitar gleamed—a curved blade of blacksteel edged in red-veined runes, its surface rippling faintly with shadowfire. I ...

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